my winter soldier
by requestofthemoon
Summary: So it turns out the guy Sora's mother is dating used to be the head of some secret organization, and his old enemies (Hydra or Squid or something) are after them. So to protect them, Sora is left in the care of ex solider Bucky Barnes. And as they say, familiarly breeds intimacy. Or was that supposed to be friendship?
1. Chapter 1

1

There's nothing more nasty than watching your own mother develop a crush on someone.

But at least the man she picked is a good one.

At first he was just the strange man who sat in the back of our bookstore. Sometimes he would read books, stop halfway, then pay for them and leave with a smile to my mother. That's what I liked – you can always tell how nice a person is from their smile. If they make you want to smile in return, then they're genuine. My mother always grinned back at him. Not a polite smile, but a grin.

Other times that man would bring in a laptop, or maybe a case file and some papers. That's what made me think he was an FBI agent or something, but that theory quickly withered and died. I highly doubt FBI agents wear jeans and sunglasses all the time. Indoors, too. He wore sunglasses indoors. Literally one of the dumbest fashion statements. I assumed he was blind because of them, but he's caught me staring at him too many times for that to be the case. So I assume maybe he's got some funky-looking eyes beneath those black lenses.

That's why my new theory is that he's some sort of demon. Not like the Conjuring, but like the kind you'll find in Young Adult novels. Maybe he's got a cute demon son?

I grin to myself as I skip the paragraph of my book for the millionth time. Mr. Grump doesn't have any family – they'd probably wonder why he's at another woman's bookstore every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. That and when we started inviting him to dinners and parties he never brought anyone with him.

"Hey yo Sora! What's taking so long?"

I glance up at my book, at Mr. Grump who's sitting in the corner of the bookstore with his file bent over, wearing a grin.

"What exactly are you talking about, Grump?" I ask.

"My coffee."

I frown. "You asked for a coffee?"

"An hour ago, yeah. Guess you were too wrapped up in that book of yours to notice."

Normally I'm very punctual with orders, and I've mastered the art of listening while not listening. And I know for a fact Grump didn't ask for anything. He's probably just pulling my leg again.

"Something interesting happen in your case, Grump?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "How'd you know?"

"You distract yourself with a ruse when something bothers you." I shrug. "How do you want your coffee?"

He's smirking when he answers. "Black. Like me."

He cracks that joke at least once every time he comes and I still snort like an idiot. My skin isn't dark enough for any kind of black coffee joke. Maybe a latte joke, but you can't really make those funny.

_Hey I want a latte! Cream colored like me!_

_You dumb shit all lattes are cream colored._

While I get Grump his coffee, my mom breezes back. She flashes a bright smile at him, which he returns, along with a wink. I can see his eyebrow crease behind the glasses. I feel happy and violated at the same time.

We've known Grump for two years. He came to my seventeenth birthday and my present was a gun. You'd think my mother would be upset, but she figured a little defense never hurt anyone. I swear I've never seen Grump so impressed before. For my eighteenth birthday, coming up sometime in the next month, I hope he'll get me a bigger one.

"Business slow?" he asks.

She nods, picking the last box of fresh books and resting it on the table he sits at. "I'm glad – I have time to put all my stuff away."

"Would you have time for dinner later this evening?"

This comment barely bounces off me – it used to make me grimace, but mom and Grump have dinner together all the time. I figure he's probably told her what he does for a living, but if she knows she isn't telling me. Whenever I ask him, he says he's a secret agent working for a dead organization. At this point, I've burned through enough possibilities to where I might end up believing him.

"I don't know Patrick . . . I might be too busy." She gives a fake look of worry to her small box of books.

"Ah damn, Lucy, I guess you're right," he says. "I guess I'll just have to help you shelve those books then. See if we'll somehow manage to finish in time."

Is this how old people flirt? Through excessive sarcasm?

I want to groan. This means the only time I'll ever have game is when I'm in my fifties.

Mom and Grump vanish back to where the books are, laughing at something I refuse to listen to as I shove my headphones in. They usually take an hour to shelve together, and since I know that shelving won't take more than thirty minutes, I have no intention of finding out what they do for the rest of their time.

Since My Chemical Romance is singing about the Black Parade too loudly, I don't notice the customer walk in until he taps the counter.

I glance up and quickly take out my headphones. The man looks slightly impatient, and wears a tan trench coat that hides his entire body. If that doesn't scream suspicious, then the picture of Grump in his hand certainly does.

"Have you seen this man?" he asks politely.

It's my time to shine. Obviously this is one of Grump's enemies. "No I haven't," I say as innocently as I can.

The man smiles. Well, he tries to. It looks too fake to even be called a smile. "Allow me to introduce myself – my name is Agent Jacob Wallis with the FBI." He flashes his badge.

I swallow. Maybe I can shine another time. "What is this about?"

Ah hell. Jacob raises an eyebrow, and now I realize that if I wanted to cover for Grump, I have to be careful with what I say now. Just act curious. An FBI agent is in your bookshop. You have every right to be curious.

"He's a criminal," he says. "Wanted for murder, theft, fraud – basically everything on the list."

I feel my heart pound. If this is true, then my mom is alone with him in the back of my bookstore.

No. Think. You're smart. If Grump is dangerous, then he hasn't appeared so to me. He's acted as a father to me. Who am I going to give the benefit of the doubt to; him, or some stranger?

While the stranger would have been a smarter idea, I put my faith in Grump. "I'm sorry sir, but I haven't." I pause. "Could you leave that picture here, though? So I know what he looks like if he comes here?"

The lies sell it. He nods and rests the paper on the desk, along with a white card. While he does this, I study him. Nothing defining about him at all. Nothing I can really describe to Grump – white male, brown hair, looks to be in his forties.

Then I see the tattoo on his neck.

It's a dumb tattoo – a squid or an octopus I think. But it looks familiar . . .

I frown. That symbol was on one of Grump's files.

The man sees my gaze and glances behind him, at the table where Grump's files sit. He looks back at me. "Those yours?"

My heart is pounding. "Yeah. My school stuff."

For a second I fear he's going to ask to see them. But he just nods, disinterested, and gives me a "thanks" before leaving the store.

Around that time, my mom walks back to me. "Was that a costumer?" she asks.

I nod. Do I tell her? "Nah," I say. "He wanted directions to the nearest bus stop. I think he's a tourist."

Behind her, Grump has the box of books in his hands. I try to give the best inconspicuous _get your ass over here _look without setting off my mom.

He gets it, bless the man. "Actually Lucy," he says, handing her the box. "I have to get back to my paperwork real quick – it should only take a sec."

She shrugs. "Alright. I'll be in the back if you need me."

She heads back to the shelves. Only when she's gone does Grump walk over to the counter and lower his voice. "What is it, kid?"

"A man came for you," I whisper. My tone is more urgent than I expected, and my heart is still pounding. It's like my body recognizes the gravity of the situation more than I do.

His expression betrays no emotion. He stays calm. "What did he say?"

I slide the picture the man gave me to him. I didn't look well before, but now that I am I realize that in the picture he's wearing an eye patch and looks a lot meaner than the man standing in front of me. "He said you were a criminal. Convicted of murder."

I'm not stupid. I've seen horror movies, and I know admitting I'm aware of the danger usually guarantees death. But if I can't trust Grump, then I want to know.

"Are you a pirate?" I whisper.

He actually chuckles. "No, sweetheart, I'm not a pirate. I'm not a criminal either. You made a good call, not telling that man about me."

I'm not quite convinced yet; I'm still suspicious. Maybe because now that this possibility has come to light, I'm wary. He _is _dating my mom, after all. "Are you a killer, Grump?"

"Not the kind you're thinking of," he says without taking his eyes off the picture. "But yes, I have killed before."

Ah hell, what am I supposed to do with this? Was he an assassin? "Are you going to hurt us? My mom?"

He looks up at me then. His expression is utterly sincere when he speaks. "I promise you, Sora, I will not hurt you or do anything that puts the life of you or your mother at risk."

He turns around then, and heads to his files. I know what's going to happen – he is going to keep his promise by leaving us. And I don't want him to leave.

Which is why the words tear their way past my lips. "He had a tattoo. Of a squid."

Grump freezes.

"A squid?" he asks quietly.

I nod, forcing my voice to rise. "An octopus, maybe. It looked like a skull with tentacles."

He stands ramrod straight and spins on his heel. "Sh–"

I have a very good idea of what Grump was going to say, but the explosion cuts him off.

The force of it throws me off my chair, tumbling into the counter. I hear Grump's footsteps heading towards me, and his tough hands on my shoulders. "Sora? Sora can you hear me?"

"Sora! Patrick!" I hear my mom scream.

"Lucy, _stay where you are!_" Grump barks. His tone frightens me – he speaks as if life and death is on the line. "Lucy I'll come to you! Don't move!"

He scoops me up, my head spinning. When we stand I see two men walk inside, both carrying very large guns.

Grump ducks back under the counter, but it isn't much use. Bullets spray over our heads, so loud and so startling that I can barely think. No one ever mentions how disorienting being under fire is; you have to act quickly, but your mind doesn't want to do anything when there are threats being flung at you constantly.

The moment the bullets pause, Grump whips out a gun from the folds of his jacket and fires. I hear a grunt and I know he's hit one of his targets. The bullets resume and he ducks back down. He looks too calm, and that's when I realize that this kind of situation is probably his thing. _Was _his thing. Something tells me he's out of practice.

"Come out with your hands on your head!" the other man yells. "Throw your gun over the counter!"

"Why the hell would I do that?" Grump barks at him.

I hear a startled cry, and my eyes widen. My _mom. _

Grump grips my arm tight as death to keep me from standing up. I yank myself out of his grip and force myself to calm down, the way he does. But I can't. I'm too afraid. My mother probably has a gun to her head right now. If I see it, I'll start panicking. That's why I don't let myself stand either.

I can see him thinking the possibilities through, thoroughly. He pulls another gun from his pocket, letting it sit in his palm before turning to me. Without realizing it, I take it from his hands.

"Follow my right hand," he mumbles quietly. Then he raises his voice. "Alright! Alright you got me!"

"Throw the gun over first!" the man snaps. "Or I shoot the woman!"

Grump tosses his gun over the counter. Slowly, he stands.

"Hands on the counter!"

He rests his palms on the counter. His right hand extends slightly, as if he's leaning on it. But I know what he's doing – he's telling me where the gunman is with that hand. Where I have to shoot.

I pale. He wants me to _shoot _someone?!

No stop. Mom's right there, in danger. You know this situation. Mom doesn't walk away from this, she's seen too much. Grump probably won't be walking after a day or so, either. It's up to me.

I suck in a shaky breath, summon the short gun-training he gave me, and stand as quick as I can. I fire blindly, straight at the direction Grump's hand guided me to. The man yelps and is pushed back by the force and I fire again, this time hitting his shoulder. I quickly slide the gun to Grump, who fires two fatal shots into the man's chest.

My mother jerks away from the man's grip as he collapses. I'm surprised that she's doing this fine, but my mother has always been a strong woman. She's shaking though, when Grump reaches her. I follow him as he guides us to the back of the library.

"Patrick what's going on?" Mom demands.

"Trust me when I say that now is not the time," he says, glancing behind him. "I'll explain but right now, we gotta go."

"Where?" I ask. My ears are ringing.

"Someplace safe."

I can hear the sound of shouting at the front of the store, and I feel panic rise again. There's more this time, and I don't think Grump's one gun is going to do any good.

We make it out the back door and down the street. He whips out his phone then, dials a number, and holds it up to his ear. Someone answers, and he barks into it urgently. "Yeah man, I know this is short notice, but if you don't get your star-spangled ass over here in five minutes, I'm gonna break it over a flag poll. You hear me?"

Obviously the answer is brief an pleasing, because he snaps the phone shut a second later, and stuffs it back in his pocket. "Don't worry girls, help is on the way. We're gonna be fine."

"Then maybe you could explain what exactly is happening?" Mom demands.

"Lucy, I promise I'll explain. Let's just get to that safe spot first."

"God dammit Patrick, at least give me something!" she snaps. "My bookstore just got shot up by a bunch of men who seemed to be looking for _you!_"

He sighs and only speaks again once we're at least two blocks away from where the bookstore was. "We can start with the basics. My name isn't Patrick Grumps. It's Nicholas Fury. And those guys you saw back there? They were part of my old job."

"And what job was that?"

"You remember what happened in New York, a few years back? With the aliens?"

My mom frowns. "Are you an Avenger?"

He shakes his head. "I was head of operations at the agency they worked for."

This seems to settle it for my mother, because she lapses into silence. She keeps up with everything news-wise, so she's probably thinking through everything that "organization" has been involved with, or if she's heard Grump's real name elsewhere.

I, on the other hand, have. I think it was two years back when all the secrets of that agency appeared online. My tech friend Garrison obsessed over it for weeks. I caught the basic idea – one powerful agency got screwed over by another powerful agency and they both went down in the aftermath of it.

"So you know Thor?" I ask excitedly.

He blinks. "I do, yes."

"What's he like?"

"Well first off, he's too old for you."

I wave my hand. I figure once they breach the thousands, age become irrelevant. Besides, when my friends and I placed dibs on each Avenger I called Thor. Though I have to admit, as maniacal as he is, Loki is also one hell of a looker.

I start to ask about Loki, but then the rumble of a fast-paced engine cuts me off. A sleek black car pulls up to the curb, it's windows tinted black. At first I think the enemy has caught up to it, but then the window rolls down and a familiar face peers up at Grump.

My jaw drops. "Captain America?" I spin on Grump. "You called Captain America?"

"Yes I did, now get in the car." He ushers me inside, then my mother. He walks around to the passenger seat and once he's inside, Captain drives away.

"You're involving civilians now, Fury?" Captain chastises. He sounds more annoyed than upset.

"I had no choice – Hydra came to us. I had to bring them along."

"'Us'?" Captain glances back at us. "So this is your family?"

Grump pauses for a moment. "That's Lucy, and the young lady beside her is Sora. Girls, this is Steve Rodgers."

He gives us a tip of the head in the mirror. "Nice to meet you."

"You too," I say. My mom is still somewhat frozen in shock. I guess I can't blame her. All this has put me out a little bit, too.

I look up at Captain, and at Grumps.

Nah, I'm good.


	2. Chapter 2

2

_Side note: Reviews are awesome, so if you want to leave one don't hesitate! Thanks for reading!_

A few hours later, we're sitting around a black wooden table in Captain America's kitchen. I'm munching a little sourly at a plate of apple slices. When I said "I'll take anything," I meant anything with salt or sugar. These are green apples, of all things, and are sour as literal hell. But I have nothing else to eat.

Grumps just finished telling us all that he could about his past life. Mom has mostly recovered from her initial shock, but she doesn't seem too thrilled about what happened to her store. Though she isn't mad at Grumps for lying – she gets it, which earns her a really loud kiss from Grumps.

"Is there a bathroom here?" I ask him. "I need someplace to vomit."

"Down the hall, to the right," Grumps says with a grin.

"Thanks," I say dryly and leave.

I make it about halfway to the bathroom before I get distracted. It's not that I have a short attention span, it's the fact that Captain America's shield is lying against the coffee table, and no one is here.

I frown. I should leave it be. It's a national symbol at this point. And Mr. America probably wouldn't want me touching it.

Well, Mr. America isn't here right now.

I scamper to the table and slide my right arm into the straps on the back of the shield. The loops are giant, at least twice the size of my actual arm. No surprise there – Mr. America's bicep is the size of my head. I figure the rest of him is big, too.

With a grunt, I heave it up. It's hard to notice when he tosses this thing around like a Frisbee, but it's actually a lot heavier than it looks. But for something as hard and as big as it is, it's surprisingly light. And up close, it's giant. It covers from my head to my waist, and I stretch my chin to try and see over the top. I catch my reflection in one of the mirrors near the fireplace, and take a classic Captain stance. I grin. "All I need now is the uniform."

"I don't think it would fit very well."

I don't have to turn – I can see him in the mirror, standing behind me, giant arms crossed over his chest. Captain America looks a lot bigger in a white t-shirt and jeans than he does in his uniform.

I hastily pull the shield off my arm, but the last strap tangles on my fingers. In my rush to tear it off, it slips through my hands and drops on my foot.

Needless to say, I scream and fall.

I have to hand it to him – Grumps is fast. The shield hasn't even stopped spinning before he's in the living room with my mom on his heels. At that time, Captain is already at my side, light concern on his features. "Are you alright?"

"Oh God," I gasp, eyes burning. "I think that cut into my bone."

Apparently Captain America is also a medic. And about twenty minutes later, my foot is taped and propped up on the coffee table. It turns out, I shattered one of my foot bones on contact, as well as receive an ugly, bloody gash. And if you've ever had someone calmly bandage your foot after you were stupid enough to drop their shield on it, you know what embarrassment is. On top of that, I'm ticklish. So I was also trying not to giggle when his hands touched my soles.

"Don't worry," Grumps says with a grin. "I've seen stupider moves in my lifetime."

"Gee, thanks," I mutter.

"So what's your plan, Fury?" Steve (he asked me to call him that because he couldn't take Mr. America seriously, and I started making a Mr. Rodger's Neighborhood joke, which, apparently he has heard thousands of times before) asks. He sounds calm, though he also seems tense. I guess Hydra resurfacing puts him on edge.

"Obviously, I need to keep Lucy and Sora under protection now. I'm not running the risk of leaving them on their own." He frowns. "I have a few contacts, but I don't think . . ."

It takes me a moment to realize that he doesn't trust anyone deeply enough to hide us, and I can't help but smile. He's so concerned about our well-being.

"I thought splitting them up would be a good idea," he says finally. "So if one of us is found, the other is safe. Lucy stays with me. And –"

"Sora stays with me?" Steve asks wryly.

Grumps grins. "If you wouldn't mind, Captain. It would be temporary, until I found someone else."

"Who are you thinking of?"

"Well, Natasha and Clint for one."

My grin fades. "You mean Black Widow?" My eyes widen. "Grumps – Grumps please, I have to stay with her."

Steve's lips twice into a broad grin. "'Grumps'?"

"I would, believe me, Clint is good with kids," he says, ignoring Steve. "But Natasha is out a lot, and considering the kind of people after _her, _I think it would be safer if you just stayed here with Steve."

My face falls.

"Do contain your excitement," Steve says dryly.

I blush. "Come on Cap, you gotta agree Ms. Romanoff is a tad bit cooler."

"I agree one hundred percent," he says. "But, to be honest, I've never babysat anyone before. I might suck at it."

I grin. "You should be okay. I'm pretty low maintenance."

My mom barks out a laugh, but says nothing.

* * *

I love thunderstorms. I like curling up in my room with one of the new books that come in on Sundays and reading, or watching a movie. But I don't have any of my books with me and my laptop is at home. Though I can't complain – Steve's TV is giant, and he has thousands of channels. I snuggle up into the leather, since I have no idea where the blankets are and don't want to bother dragging the ones from my room downstairs, and wrap my arms around myself.

My stomach growls – Steve went out awhile ago and I think he forgot that he had a young one at home, because he hasn't been back in about five or six hours. I raided his kitchen awhile ago, but this guy literally has _no _junk food. Fruits, veggies,

health shakes, vitamin water, and orange juice. With pulp. Who drinks orange juice with pulp?

I sigh. Maybe I can give those baked kettle chips a try, though the 'zero calories' label didn't seem promising. What good tasting brand of chips has zero calories?

I start to get on my feet just as I hear a knock on the door. Instantly, I freeze. Steve wouldn't knock on his own door, so it's someone else. Hydra? Did they find us? Or maybe another one of Steve's enemies?

The knocking continues again, only loud enough. "Steve, God dammit, open the door!" Someone shouts from the other end.

Well if that doesn't sound like a best friend then I don't know what does.

I hurry and undo the security locks and swing the door open. Rain is pouring outside. Lightning flashes briefly, illuminating the tall, dark figure standing at the door. He's dressed in some kind of black army uniform, with something silver glinting on his right hand. Well, my right. His left.

"Can I help –" That's about as much as I get out before the figure takes two steps, stumbles forward, and collapses on me.

We fall backwards like a rock. Luckily, we land on the carpet, so my head doesn't hit the floor too hard. I reach out with my toe and kick the door shut the best I can. I turn back to the man on top of me, but he isn't moving. I can feel him breathing against me – I can feel a _lot _of things on him against me – so I assume he's just passed out. Drunk? He doesn't smell like he's had any alcoholic beverage.

"God, what do you people eat?" I grunt as I slowly heft the man off me. He's almost as packed as Captain is, but I manage to get him rolled over beside me. I lie there on my back, panting as I try to catch my breath. Finally, I push myself to my feet and flick the lights on.

He can't be more than twenty-something. Twenty five, maybe younger. His face looks serene, almost kind. His pink-red lips are slightly parted, his curly brown hair is mixed with mud. What I mistook for uniform is actually a jacket with a bulletproof vest underneath, which is peppered with holes. His hands are stained with blood, and, I notice, so is his vest.

I groan. "Of course the bloody man comes stumbling in _after_ the medic leaves the house." I get down on my knees and heft him into my lap, careful not to put too much pressure on my bad foot. I peel his hoodie off, gagging when black and red comes off on my palm. I pull his vest off next, though that mostly tears off because of the damage. Without that, all that's left is his tank top, which is mostly just sweaty scraps sticking to his wound like a band-aid. I peel that off his body, and finally settle him onto the carpet.

The first thing that catches my attention is his arm. His left arm. It's completely made out of metal, with a red star on his bicep. Out of curiosity, I reach out and touch it. It's not as warm as I expected, in fact, it's still a little cool, despite the amount of energy he must have burned through. Just looking at him, I can tell he's been through hell. He has a reasonably deep gash running from his left breast to the top of his abdomen, but it's mostly stopped bleeding. Blood still surrounds the wound, along with mud and a slick sheet of sweat, which I figure I'll have to wash off before it causes an infection.

I hurry to the kitchen and grab a long roll of paper towels and two bowls. I fill one with water, then carry all of it to the man's side. I wipe his chest clean, and I find I don't really mind. I just pretend I'm a civil war nurse tending to a wounded soldier and I get through it fine. Once I finish, I sit criss-cross and admire my work. That's also when I realize that this man is _built_. His skin is tan, his chest broad and layered with muscle, not an inch of fat to be seen.

I glance down at his pants, wondering if I should remove them too, just to be safe.

His lips move, and I frown. "Can you . . . say that again?"

His voice is dead quiet, and I can barely hear him.

"Could you maybe raise your voice a little, so I can, you know, stay over here?" I ask helplessly.

When it's obvious he can't hear me, I sigh, curse myself, and lean down, bracing my arms on either side of his head so I don't fall on him. I bring my ear to his lips, waiting for him to speak again.

Suddenly there's a hand in my hair, holding me in place. I gasp, trying to jerk away, but this man is ten times stronger than I am. But his touch isn't too rough – he's just trying to keep me where I am, I realize. I still, and his hand relaxes, still tangled in my hair.

"They . . . have them," he whispers. "The twins. The twins."

_Please, please don't be talking about The Shining. _"Who are the twins?"

He coughs and turns his head, and I pull back so he has room to breathe. When he turns back, his eyes flutter open just barely. They're a deep, rich brown color. Not as dark as mine, but a little lighter. Like chocolate.

My stomach growls and that seems to wake him up. His hand tightens against my scalp, but he doesn't seem to know what to say.

"What's your name, soldier?" I ask softly.

His lips part, and he sighs. "James . . . Buchanan . . . Barnes."

Barnes. Barnes. Barnes. That name was in Grumps' folder – it clicks in my head. "Bucky Barnes?"

The smallest of smiles touches his lips and he nods. Then his eyes close, his hand slackens against my hair, and he drops back against the carpet.

Oh man am I glad I'm not at Black Widow's right now.

After surveying my bad leg, I decide I have enough strength left in me to heft all 200 pounds of muscle man onto the living room couch. He almost falls on me again as I brace his side with my shoulders, and the idea of being pinned face-first into the wooden floor by his chest is enough to get me to push him completely onto the couch.

I let out a loud sigh and collapse at the foot of the couch. Bucky's arm falls over the side, and I swat it away. I sit there for a few moments, heart pounding, trying to decide what to do next.

Then I get up, grab the zero-calorie kettle chips, and continue watching TV.

* * *

I wake up to the sound of fear.

At first I think I'm still dreaming, because I have no idea where I am and somewhere, in the clouds, someone is gasping and moaning in pain, anger, and fear. But then the sounds get louder, my head clears, and I realize it's Bucky tossing around on the couch.

I spin around – I feel asleep against the front of the couch – and stand. He's laying mostly still, mostly just his head and shoulders moving from side to side. He looks like he's having a horrible nightmare, but what do I do? I read somewhere that you aren't supposed to wake people up when they're having night terrors. Or was that when they're sleep walking?

I bite my lip. Whatever the consequence, it can't be worse than what he's going through now. His face is flushed, and the sounds coming from his throat are low, guttural, angry. Startled. Scared.

I reach forward and gently shake his arm, the metal arm, which is facing me. "Bucky," I whisper. "Bucky, wake up."

I shake him again, but he doesn't stir. I shake him harder, then move around so I'm leaning mostly over him. "Bucky –"

His eyes fly open, and suddenly the metal arm I'm holding is around my waist, throwing me off. I hit the wooden floor with a grunt and look up just in time to see him sprinting straight for me, a look of pure murder in his eyes.

I scream, and he's there, pinning me down. One hand closes around my throat, the other arm – his metal one – pulls back closed in a tight fist. My eyes widen when I realized it's aimed straight for my face.

"Bucky," I choke out. His hand isn't holding my throat too tightly, but tight enough to where I can't breathe clearly. "Bucky, stop! _Stop!_"

And then his fist flies at me, and I shut my eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

3

I hear a loud slam and a deep metal hum reverberates through the floor and my skull. I don't even know if I screamed; my heart is beating too loudly. The hand around my throat loosens, and I gasp, sucking in air. My eyes open, and I turn to the side, where the metal fist has planted itself three inches away from my head. It pulls away, and I see the dent in the wood, in the shape of a fist, with cracks spiraling from it. I shudder, thinking that that could have been my face.

"Bucky," I gasp quietly, looking up at him. _Keep using his name, bring him back into reality._ "I'm not going to hurt you. Please don't hurt me."

His eyes snap to mine then, and they widen. He yanks himself off me and backs away, as if I'm a fire and he's bathed in gasoline.

I touch my neck. I'm going to have marks for sure, but frankly, I'm grateful that I'm alive to whine about it. I watch him warily as I stay on my side of the living room. He's awake, but he literally just tried to kill me, as if it was something programmed into his system. If that's what he can do in his sleep . . .

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean – I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He looks so genuinely torn up over what he's done that I can't help but soften a little. "You're Bucky Barnes, right?" I say gently. "Steve Rodger's best friend - Captain America."

Something lights in his eyes, and he calms down. He smiles a small, fond smile. "Steve. Steve. The year . . . 2015. 2015. Bucky." He says each word as if they are comfort items that will float away if he doesn't call them back to him. He closes his eyes, and looks at me. He looks better now. "My name is Bucky," he says.

I smile. "Yeah, I know. My name is Sora."

"Sora." He pauses. "Sorry for . . . for hurting you. And knocking on your door – I was looking for my friend, and I must have made a wrong turn –"

"No, this is his house," I say. "I'm just staying with him."

He stops then, and looks me over. "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," I say. _Even though I don't act it. _Then I realize why he asked. "Oh God – I'm not his girlfriend. He's just letting me stay here."

Slowly, he smiles, and I can't help but notice how charming it is. "That isn't why I asked."

I start blushing. Then I realize my situation, and I push myself to my feet. He stays where he is, looking up at me in curiosity. "Steve isn't here, and I'm not sure when he'll be back but – um – I –"

"It's okay," he says, pushing himself to his feet then. "I'll help myself."

He walks to the kitchen then and pulls out some food. He makes a face when he sees some of the things the fridge. He hastily makes a few sloppy sandwiches and leaves them on the counter. He walks to the other side of the kitchen, pawing through the cabinets until he finds what he's looking for – a white box that looks a little too big to be a first aid kit.

I frown. "Do you live here? You seem to know the place pretty well."

"Nah," he says, opening it up and pulling out a needle and thread. "I know Steve."

I sigh and flick the lights on so he can see better. I head to the counter and fix his sandwiches so they aren't uneven disasters, and add some lettuce and meat to them. When I glance over, I make a face when I see that blood is running from the stitches. His hand is shaking as he works, making his skin tear.

"Here, let me." Before I realize what I'm doing, I take the needle from his hand and continue where he left off. I see the light glint off his metal arm reaching over me in my peripheral vision, and my hand shakes just slightly. But he's just grabbing one of the sandwiches, and eats while I stitch him up.

"Have you done this before?" he asks through a mouthful of turkey.

"Sure." No. Never. But how hard can it be? I used to make my doll's clothing when I was little, and the pattern isn't that different. When I reach the end of the wound, I lean down, tearing the thread with my teeth. My lips brush against his skin, and I feel him stiffen. I pull back and try not to blush.

I see his metal hand reach towards me, and I jerk away. When I realize what I did, I blush. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he says. "I just . . . in case that ever happens again, seeing something familiar on people usually wakes me up fast. So can . . . can I . . .?"

I nod and step back towards him. I've never actually been this close with someone this good-looking, or this, well, bare. I had a boyfriend once, but we never really went very far. And he didn't look nearly as cute as Bucky does.

He reaches out with his other arm, the normal looking one, and gently touches my hair. It isn't awkward, or intimate – he's just learning the feel. He takes a few light brown strands between his fingers. "You have pretty hair," he says absentmindedly.

"Thanks," I say quietly.

He lets my hair fall back onto my shoulder. His eyes follow the movement, and narrow. "Did I do that?"

I touch my neck and shrug. "You were having a nightmare – I shouldn't have bothered you."

"No, I'm glad you woke me up. But . . . God, I'm sorry." He reaches out with his metal hand and gently touches the bruises. The skin is hot where his cold hand touches, and it feels good. I find myself leaning into his hand, sucking in a long breath –

"Bucky?"

The hand is gone and I spin around, startled. Steve is standing there, box of pizza in his hands, and a look of absolute shock on his face. I realize what this must look like, and I take five steps away from Bucky, folding my hands behind my back.

For what seems like forever, he and Bucky just stare at each other. A million different emotions fly through Steve's eyes, but Bucky's remain emotionless, passive. Like when he was about to punch me.

And then he blinks, and smiles. "Steve, man, did you get bigger?"

* * *

We sit around the table, eating quietly. Well, I'm quiet. Steve and Bucky are talking a mile a minute, about things ranging from home to people to the army. I just watch them, sipping at my Nakèd orange-mango (it's the healthiest form of juice Steve could find). At first I noticed that Steve was careful to stay off the topic of what happened after Bucky died (I read about the accident in my history book. It was in the Fun Fact section). At first I thought it was because it was a touchy subject, but then I realize it's because something afterwards is the reason for Bucky's night terrors. After all, if he's still looks like that after almost eighty years, then there must be a non-scientific reason.

". . .Sora?"

I blink, and I realize both of them are looking at me. "What?"

"I said," Steve says. "Are you okay if Bucky watches you?"

I pale. As in, live with him? After what just happened? "I . . ."

"You'll both be staying here," he says. "I'll be home most of the time, but you'll be alone with Bucky for awhile. I just want to make sure you're okay with that."

I glance at Bucky, who's staring at his hands, and smirk. "As long as I don't have to wake him up in the morning, I'm fine."

He makes a sound – somewhere between a laugh and a snort, and I smile. "So now that that's settled, I'm going to bed. Where am I staying, Captain?"

He gets up. "I'll show you."

The guest room is comfortable, but there's only one. Bucky seems fine with the couch, but I feel guilty. I feel like someone with his sleep issues should have the comfier bed, but neither of them would even let me finish the trade offer. I roll my eyes. Gentlemen.

Before I climb into bed, I go to the bathroom to see the wounds. They don't look as bad as I thought – I mean, you can tell that someone tried to strangle me, but you can also tell they didn't get very far, if that counts for anything. I let my hair sweep over the marks and climb into bed. I bundle myself up the sheets and close my eyes. I'm asleep in seconds.

* * *

_Thump._

I turn over burying my face under my pillow.

_Thump. Clap_._ Thump. Clap._

_What the actual hell?_ I throw another pillow over my head, and swath my blankets over the mound. But I can still feel the vibrations through the wood, which makes the bed tremble gently.

"I'm gonna tear shit up," I growl, kicking my sheets off and climbing out of bed. I grab my shorts and head downstairs. The sounds get louder; they're a rhythmic mantra coming from the living room. As I jog down the stairs, I can see a familiar shape on his hands and knees on the floor. When I reach the living room, that's when I realize Bucky is doing the clap pushup. As I watch, he switches from that to normal pushes. He goes through at least fifty consecutively before pausing to grab the water bottle on the coffee table and take a deep swig.

"You can take the man out of the military," I say, and he turns to look at me. "But you can't take the military out of the man."

He grins and sits down cross-legged. "Hey Sora."

"Do you usually wake up and work out? What else? Go running for fun?"

He shrugs. "It's a habit. They used to –" He breaks off. "At least I get to wake up late and do it. I used to have to get up at six."

_In the military or for whoever changed you?_

"Is Steve here?" I ask, heading to the kitchen.

"I think he left awhile ago. I heard the door close sometime at five or six AM."

I shudder. Who knew being a hero involved waking up so early? "Did you eat yet?"

"No."

"You like omelets?"

He looks confused for a moment before frowning. "I think so, yeah."

My hand pauses on the bottle of non-stick spray. "You think?"

"I…most of my old instincts are a little hazy, sometimes. Bad memory." He taps his skull and smiles playfully before going back to his workout.

Ah hell, I shouldn't. I whisk the eggs. I shouldn't. I mince the mushrooms. I shouldn't. I cut some onions. I shouldn't. I put them together and let them cook on the pan. I really, really shouldn't.

"What happened? To your memory?" I ask.

I hear his soft grunts pause as he stops doing sit ups. I keep my eyes on the vegetables – is an onion a vegetable? – and bite my lip.

"That's none of your business," he says quietly.

He doesn't sound angry, but I feel guilty for bringing it up. It was insensitive of me – obviously, that's something personal and traumatizing. Asking him to go back down memory lane for my curiosity is rude and selfish.

"I'm sorry," I apologize, and hope it sounds sincere enough. "Do you like cheese on your omelets?"

"I love cheese," he mumbles, and goes back to his routine.

I grab one of the cans of soda (Steve said it was better than juice, since juice is basically empty calories and blah, blah, blah), then after a moment of hesitation, grab a vitamin water. I carry both in one hand and balance one omelet plate on my inner elbow and carry Bucky's in my free hand.

"Need help?" he asks when I approach.

"Nah, I got it." I say, setting down the drinks on the coffee table. I hand him his plate, and for a moment my hand brushes against his metal one. Even now, after working out, it's still cold. I wonder if I could stick magnets to it.

I take my plate to the kitchen, since eating in front of each other would probably be awkward. I stare outside, at the rising sun, and start eating.

I'm about halfway into it when I hear Bucky in the kitchen, setting his plate in the sink. At first I assume he didn't like it, but when I turn I see it's empty.

I raise an eyebrow. "You finished already?"

"I was hungry," he says defensively, and I laugh.

"I'll make you another," I say, and head to the stove.

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but something crosses his eyes and suddenly I'm on the floor. I have just enough time to yell "Hey!" before he's on top of me, pinning me down.

My heart starts racing immediately. His bare, sweat-bathed chest presses tightly against my own, and I can feel his heart beating hard and heavy. He's so much heavier than me, making it impossible to move from beneath him. He tucks my face into his shoulder, and I grip his back tightly in a mixture of fear and confusion. "Bucky –"

That's about all I get out before bullets start flying above my head.


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky doesn't give me time to scream or lay there in complete terror; the moment the bullets pause, he grabs me and crouches low, pulling us away from the giant windows. Why does Captain America of all people have giant windows in his damn _kitchen_? Even though my heart is racing and my mind is in panic, I can't help but feel touched that he's using his body as a shield for me.

We make it as far as the closet before the gunfire starts up again. Ahead of us is the stairs, but the pathway to it is directly in the line of fire. Meaning we're stuck where we are, far away from all doors leading outside. As if that isn't bad enough, the gunfire stops and I hear the very distinct sound of the front door being broken open.

"Bucky," I whisper. "what do we do?"

He says nothing to me. He picks me up and guides me to the corner, behind some coats. His hands clasp on my shoulders, pushing me down so I'm crouching. He reaches for the shelf behind me, his metal fingers brushing against my cheek before drawing back, now with a small black pistol, which he tucks into my hand. He's been working like a machine this entire time, but when his dark eyes meet mine, I see a flicker of life in them.

"If someone comes in," he says, voice heavy and cold. "kill them."

"What if I miss?" I whisper.

"Then they'll kill you."

Then he pulls a giant black assault rifle from behind me and ducks outside the closet.

The moment he's gone, I realize I should have done something, like convince him to stay so we could sneak out together. But I guess Bucky's first instinct is to eliminate the threat. Steve's would probably be to get the civilian to safety. But then again, he and Bucky are different people, trained by different organizations. Whatever group had Bucky, they weren't the good kind.

I hear sounds of yelling and brief automatic gunshots, which are abruptly cut off. I hear gagging, cries of alarm, sharp cracks, heavy thumps, and even the occasional shriek. Judging by what I hear, there must be over ten men inside the house. How did they even find us? Steve said that barely anyone knows his location.

I clutch my gun tighter and curse. Well, apparently, someone couldn't keep their trap shut.

Suddenly, all sound in the house ceases completely. I hear the sound of firm footsteps and relax when I realize it's Bucky. I push the door open, gun in hand, and grin wide.

"Can't believe it took you –"

I stop short when I see the figure standing in the living room, dressed in black gear with his mouth covered. He turns and glances at me, and his eyes narrow. He sprints straight to me and I shriek and back away. Then I realize I'm holding a loaded gun, and I point and shoot. It takes me three shots to hit him, but when I do, it hits his neck. His body jerks back as if shoved, and I get closer and shoot him again. I know bullet proof vests aren't much good when the shot is close-range.

He drops to the floor and I shriek again, for no particular reason. Maybe because I just killed a man, or because I actually _killed _him and didn't freeze up like most people do in these situations. Then again, my mom always raised me to act when trouble came flying at me.

Which is exactly why, when another figure moves in my peripheral vision, I spin and shoot immediately. It's only when the man drops with a yell and I see a familiar silver arm do I realize who exactly I just shot.

"Bucky! Oh my God!" I fling the gun away and fall to his side. "Oh my God – I just shot you!"

"I noticed," he grunts, holding his leg. "Thank God I didn't give you the automatic."

He rolls the right leg of his sweatpants up. I hit the side of his calf, and blood is absolutely everywhere. His eyebrows are knit in mild pain, but he looks considerably relieved. "You just grazed me."

I relax too. "Oh good."

He rolls it back down. "It'll need stitches. But for now, we need to get the hell out of here. Come on."

He reaches over and strips the bullet-proof vest off one of the men. He motions me forward and slides it over, fastening it the best he can. It's still way too big on me. He grabs his shirt off the smashed coffee table and yanks it on, then grabs another vest and wraps his metal arm around my waist and leads me out the back door, around to the woods, where Steve keeps his other cars hidden in a small garage.

"I'll drive," he says.

I laugh in his face and slip into the driver's seat before he can. "Not with that leg. Shotgun for you, buddy."

He doesn't look too thrilled, but he climbs into the car without protest. By the time he gets the vest over his head, I've already pulled onto the road, leaving Steve's house far behind us. From the outside, it looks fine. As if it hadn't just been under attack a few minutes ago.

"Are we gonna get into a car chase?" I ask. "I'm a good driver, but I don't think I can drive while getting shot at." To be honest, driving while a good song is playing is all it takes to distract me.

"Don't worry about that. If anyone shoots at us, I'll take care of them."

"How?"

"With this." The loud _click-clack _of a shotgun being prepped makes me jump.

"Where the hell do you get all these guns?" I demand. "You're like a cartoon character, pulling umbrellas out of his back pocket."

He smirks. I don't think he can think of anything witty to say, because he turns away and says "Just drive."

We don't get into any trouble once I get onto the interstate. I'm not really sure where we're going, I just follow the instructions Bucky gives. He's on the phone now, talking with Steve, keeping their words abbreviated and coded. He snaps the phone shut when he's finished and throws it out the window. I watch it flatten beneath the tire of a passing car.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Safe house," he says. "Steve recommended a few. We're going to the second-closest one."

"Why second?"

"First is too obvious. So is anything beyond third to last. There are twelve in-between. Second is the least-likely number."

I pretend to understand the logic of that and turn on the radio, setting it low. Listening to music always calms me down, no matter the situation. "I've never been to a safe house before," I say absentmindedly. "Is it gonna be a dusty old bunker? Or a high-tech military dig?"

His lips twitch. "Not _that _kind of safe house. I literally mean just a safe house, owned by someone we can trust. Right now, that someone is Samuel Wilson."

"Do you know him?"

He shrugs. "No. But Steve said we can trust him."

It's cute, really, just how much Bucky trusts Steve. If Steve put a bomb in his hands and told him to hold still, he probably would. Then come back as a ghost and push Captain down the stairs so he could bitch at him for eternity.

"I'm sorry about your leg," I say sheepishly. "I'm not really gun-coordinated."

"Eh, it won't kill me. And if you hadn't had the gun, that man would have killed you. And it's good you noticed me and acted immediately. Though next time, I recommend stepping to the side and looking."

"I'll try to remember that the next time the house I'm in gets overrun by . . . wait, who were they?"

"Hydra." His voice is thick with malice and hate. "At least, some version of it. I wouldn't be surprised if it was another organization going by their name."

"Are they the ones who . . . fixed your arm?" I ask gently, not sure how to word it.

His fist tightens, and I glance back at the road. I expect him to be silent about it, or ignore me, but he actually speaks. "Yeah," he says quietly.

He leaves it at that, and I don't press him for details. But if Bucky was Hydra, then I shouldn't have to. Their secrets were dumped on the web awhile ago, and even though they've mostly been removed, it shouldn't be hard to find out what they did to Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes.

I glance at him, at his curly dark hair and his playful yet unfocused brown eyes. I try to imagine that hair cropped short, military style, and his eyes serious and hardened by war. The image is more sexy than startling.

I hear a honk, then quickly serve to get back in my lane. When I glance back at Bucky, he's grinning at me, mischief in his eyes. "Eyes on the road, Sora."

_And I was worried about _bullets_ distracting me. _

We reach Mr. Wilson's house sometime late in the afternoon, due to how far away it was. Bucky says Steve is going to meet us here tomorrow, and that Grump has been notified about what happened.

"I think I remember the name Samuel Wilson from Grump's files," I say as we wait at the door.

Bucky makes a sound that acknowledges he heard me while simultaneously saying he isn't really paying attention.

"He was part of an old military unit. Retired until Steve brought him back in." I pause. "I think he was on the news awhile ago. He had artificial metal wings."

Bucky's head snaps up. "Wings?"

The door swings open. The man standing there looks like a younger, handsomer version of Grump, but with a bit more hair. He's dressed in a black tank top that hugs his muscular chest and grey sweats.

"Steve mentioned he had some friends coming over," he grins. "Come on in."

I do as he says. Bucky is the last one in, and shuts the door behind him. At first I think there's something on the ground that I've yet to notice, because he's staring at it intently. But when a glance reveals nothing, I assume he's just shy.

"Do you have something I can stitch him up with, sir?" I ask, jerking a thumb back at him. "He was grazed with a bullet a few hours ago, but he's stopped bleeding for now."

"Sure, man. Call me Sam, by the way."

Sam lets us sit down in the small living room while he vanishes off somewhere. Bucky props his leg up on the coffee table and rolls up the pant leg again. It's bloodied and dark, but he doesn't look as bad as I thought. I kneel down on the carpet.

"You know," Sam says, swinging back into the room and dropping a plastic bin of baby wipes, thread, fancy scissors, and needle next to me. "You look kinda familiar. Have we met before?"

"I don't believe we have," Bucky mumbles.

"You sure? You ever work with flight division, class forty-four? Cause I swear I've seen you fight or something."

"I really, really doubt it."

The more Sam stares at Bucky, the more uncomfortable the injured ex-solider gets. I stitch his leg, pretending not to listen.

Something clicks in Sam's head, because his smile vanishes fast and he's on his feet. "Oh hell - _Bucky Barnes_?"

"Shit," Bucky mutters.

"You know each other?" I ask innocently, stitching the last of the wound.

"If you consider being kicked off a roof _knowing,_" he says sourly.

I look up at him sharply. Bucky looks back at me helplessly. "I was under orders."

"And so you _kicked _him off a _roof_?"

Sam lets out a loud sigh, cutting us off, and sits on the arm of the chair, even though there's plenty of room beside Bucky. "Shit man, no wonder Steve didn't tell me y'all's names."

"I'm sorry," Bucky says, and he sounds completely sincere. "I really am. I was different back then. I'm better now. I swear."

He softens, just barely. "You don't have any guns on you, do you?" he asks cautiously.

"No."

"Knives?"

"No."

"Electro-shock thingies?"

"No."

"Any weapons of any kind?"

"Do my hands count?"

"Considering you just about tore one of my wings off with them, yes." He grins. "But I'll let it slide, because you seem cool now. You guys like buffalo wings?"

"Oh God, yes." I snip off the last of Bucky's thread and follow Sam into the kitchen.

* * *

"So . . . I'll take the floor then," Bucky says.

We stand together in the only spare bedroom Sam has in his house. Armed with a small bed, it isn't exactly equipped to handle two people. Again, I feel guilty for making the one with night terrors sleep on the floor while I get the comfortable bed. "Bucky, seriously, just take the bed."

"I can't make you sleep on the floor," he insists.

I roll my eyes. "We've passed the 1900s, Bucky. Women strong. Women no delicate princess, unless they want to be delicate princess."

"You know, women were strong back in the 1950s."

"But we're more equal now." I pause. "Well, we're not as oppressed as we were back then."

"I know. Men and women are equal."

"So why can't you let me take the floor?"

"Well technically, to make it equal, we'd both get the bed."

The conversation halts at that. I really wish I had said something witty, because now with silence between us it's become awkward. Bucky shifts from one foot to the other, unsure of what to say. He looks like he might blush, but the soldier in him stomps out that reaction.

"If you need the floor," I say finally. "You can take it."

He makes a sound, something between a snort and a disappointed sigh. Was he hoping I'd bend and give him the bed? Well, if he wanted it, he better speak up next time. He's an ex-solider for goodness' sakes.

"I'm gonna take a shower," he says.

"And I'm going to . . . do . . . something."

He's already gone by the time I say "do", leaving me mildly deflated. There isn't much to do here. I consider bugging Sam for a little bit, but something tells me he's a guy who values his sleep. That and I'm a guest of Captain America's, so I might as well feign _some _etiquette. So I settle on the bed and kick my jeans off. Since it's just me on this bed, I shouldn't have to worry about being decent or whatever. Not that I'd sleep in jeans even _if _Bucky was beside me. I've woken up with enough button imprints and angry red lines on my hips to know that jeans and sleep weren't meant to be.

I pause then, then shimmy my bra off from underneath my shirt. Normally I wear sports bras, but for some reason this morning I grabbed a normal wire one. Maybe to make my boobs look a little better, I don't know. Now it's probably the only bra I'll have for the next few days. Hopefully we can go shopping tomorrow and grab some necessities.

I settle into the bed. It's not as comfortable as the one at Steve's house, but I'm not complaining. I close my eyes, listening to the sound of running water. I suddenly wish I could take a shower too, but I know Falcon's house probably doesn't have all the toiletries (cough, razors, voluminizing conditioner, and loofahs cough) I need, so I'll have to shower after said theorized necessities run.

The squeak and _thunk _of the water shutting off startles me awake, but I settle back into sleep soon enough. Though when the door opens, my eyes stay open. My back is facing the bathroom, meaning my face is facing the wall which now has a very detailed shadow of Bucky's toweled body.

"Sora?" he whispers.

I keep my mouth shut. I'm not sure why. Maybe because, when people call your name quietly when you may or may not possibly be conscious usually means they want to make sure you're asleep for a reason. And I want to know that reason.

Bucky flicks the lights off in the bathroom and shuts the door. I hear the very distinct sound of a towel dropping, then the rustling of some article of clothing in the corner. A pillow is yanked from the bed, and that's it.

I frown, realizing he's sleeping on the hardwood floor with just a pillow.

"You can take the blanket," I mumble quietly.

"It's okay," he whispers back.

I roll my eyes and pull the one cotton sheet off me and ball it up and throw it in his general direction. I hear a thump, and after a few moments, I hear the sound of the sheets unraveling and opening up.

"Are you cold?"

"Nah," I lie. I burrow myself under the actual bed sheet so I'm pressed against the bare mattress.

"You're a bad liar," he chuckles, but he doesn't offer to give the blanket back. I guess it's colder on the floor.

* * *

I get midnight cravings. I eat breakfast, sometimes a second breakfast, a large meal-sized snack, lunch, dinner, and dessert if I can get to it, and I still get midnight cravings.

But I figured out a cure for that awhile ago. Water. If I drink enough of it, it'll fill my stomach and rack up my health points. Careful not to step on Bucky's face or stomach or any other part of him that shouldn't be stepped on, I make my way to the kitchen, where I see the lights are already on and Sam is leaning against the counter with a jug of orange juice stilled at his lips.

I grin. "Early breakfast?"

"Early breakfast," he confirms, and tosses me a bottle of vitamin water from the fridge.

"Is it okay if we make a run for the store tomorrow?" I ask, draining at least half the bottle before resuming. "I have some money with me –"

"Nah, it's okay. I'll pay."

I frown. "You sure?"

"Yeah, 'cause Steve's gonna pay me back."

"He will?"

"Yeah, he will." It doesn't sound like a guarantee, more like a _he better_.

I finish the last of the water and dump it in the recycling bin. I quietly creep back to the room, easing the door open so it doesn't creak like the way it did when I snuck out. I step into the room, and that's when I hear the sound of the sheets turning, and very, very soft moaning. Distressed moaning.

"Oh Bucky," I say quietly. It really must be terrible, having the same horrible dreams every night no matter what you do. And he still sleeps. Most people would stay awake for days and days, only to crash and burn into a long, horrid slumber. Just how long has Bucky dealt with this to be able to sleep without caring about what will happen while his eyes are closed?

I get on my hands and knees and crawl my way to him. I don't want to throw the lights on and jar him awake, nor do I want to risk stepping on him. This time I straddle him. He told me if I ever had to wake him up, I should be directly in his line of sight, not leaning over him in case he mistakes me for a threat. I make sure my hair, which he memorized the feel of, is near his free hand and most of my body is away from his metal one.

"Bucky," I say gently, shaking his shoulder. "Bucky, wake up."

He doesn't stir, of course, but I'm not surprised. His body bucks beneath mine, and I notice then that he isn't wearing a shirt. His sweat-soaked chest rubs against mine as I try to keep him in place with no luck.

"Bucky," I try again, patting along his neck until I reach his face. I cup his face, gently, with both my hands and force him to still. "Bucky!"

His breath hitches in his throat, and for a moment my heart starts racing again in fear. Fear that he will throw me off or maybe kill me, especially since he can't see my face.

"Bucky, it's Sora. Sora. Sora," I say, hoping repetition will help.

Something cold touches the strip of skin on my back where my shirt has ridden up and chills race up my body. His metal hand is so cold it feels like ice water, almost.

"Bucky, don't hurt me," I whisper softly. "It's me. It's me."

His grip loosens, but his hand doesn't move. Slowly, I feel his other hand against my cheek, taking a few tendrils of my hair between his fingers. He draws me in close, and I feel his nose touch the curve of my shoulder. It feels like he's breathing me in, like an air-born cure.

"Sora," he says quietly.

I smile and relax. "Hey Bucky."

He clings to me, and I listen to his breathing slow down. His heart is still hammering against his chest, which is pressed tightly to my own. Once it's back to normal, I slide off him and start to make my way back to my bed, but his arm lashes out and closes around my wrist. Just to still me, not to drag me back.

"Can you . . . stay with me?" he asks quietly. He seems embarrassed the moment he says those words, because he takes it back immediately. "Ah, never mind. Just go to sleep.

I don't say anything. I just shift his right arm aside so I can lay down beside him, leaving about an inch or so of space between us. I reach over him, trying not to let my arm rub his chest too much as I search for the blanket. Once I find it, I spread it out and pull it back over the both of us.


	5. Chapter 5

5

Eventually, things settled down. We stayed with Sam for a few more days before Steve came back to grab us and move us to another secure location, this one roomier and less . . . above-ground.

Yeah, we got stuffed in a bunker.

In the mountains.

_Snowy _mountains. We're basically in the middle of nowhere.

I called my mom last night, and from the sound of it I'm almost positive she's being spoiled rotten by Grump, probably resting up in a lavish mansion. But I couldn't be sure, because even though the call was on a secure line and we kept it brief, we had to be safe. Grump gave me a quick talk, assuring me we'd all meet up soon.

But soon could mean years.

For now, Bucky is staying with us. Last he said, the people who made him the way he was were still looking for him. He wanted to stay way from me and Steve for that reason, but Steve wasn't having any of it.

"W-why are you w-working out?" I demand inside my pillow fort, wrapped in my nest of quilts. The bunker has climate control, yes, but there must be a blizzard or something going on outside, because the temperature just dropped several degrees and my body sure as hell noticed.

He pauses mid-pushup. "Exercise warms up the body."

"So do blankets."

He smirks. "All the blankets in this bunker are wrapped around you, Sora."

I extend a blanketed arm, letting cold air into my blanketed haven. "I can share."

He doesn't bother finishing his last set. He crawls over to me and I let him wrap himself inside the blankets. We squirm and fumble around a bit as I try to unwrap the layers from my body to include him. Twice we almost knock the fort down, and once I get tangled in the blankets. He laughs and pulls me free, removing all the blankets, before wrapping them around us one by one. I can't help but notice how cute his smile is. Not just cute cute, but hot cute.

A rush of cold around my back makes me squeak and jump. "Bucky, damn it, your arm is made out of metal!"

"Oh my God, when did that happen?" he asks, feigning shock.

He grins at my expression, and suddenly his metal arm is back around me, only now I'm being moved. He shifts me over his folded legs to his right side. Briefly, my ass sits nicely in his lap, and we both pause. He continues moving me, as if I weigh nothing, to his right side. Once we're comfortably fitted again, blankets rearranged, I lean against his arm, since I have nothing else to lean against.

"You're really sweaty," I comment when my arm brushes against the skin of his right.

"Am I?"

"And stubbly." I run my knuckles over his unshaved cheek. "Jeez Bucky, even I find time to shave my legs."

"You got a thing against stubble?" His right arm wraps around me, crushing me to his side and I laugh as he rubs his stubbly cheek against my own. But he's so heavy, the moment he leans too far we both go toppling, and he lands on top of me.

So does the fort.

"Bucky!" I protest, trying to push the blankets off me. I can't see anything except thick blue.

I can feel Bucky around my waist, pulling the mountains of pillows off us both. I manage to throw the blanket off of my head, grinning. Bucky is laughing so hard I think he's going to pass out.

"You okay?" he asks when he finally gets his breath back.

"I'm fine," I say. "Just help me get these blankets off."

He spends some time peeling the layers off my body, tossing them aside one by one. Finally he gets to the bottom of my sweatshirt and playfully pretends to take that off too.

"Not _that_ layer, perv," I laugh, accidentally kicking him away. He catches my foot, and I kick out with the other one on instinct. He catches that too, and I reach up with my hands to push him off. Once that happens, the play-wrestling commences.

We roll over so I'm on top, and I struggle to keep him in place. He's so much stronger than I am, but I manage to pin his shoulders down with my knees. If my big thighs had any use, it was to pin a big dangerous man to the ground.

"I win!" I shout triumphantly.

And then I'm on my back.

Bucky must have thrown me back. I land on a pile of blankets, and he's there in a flash, on top of me. I reach out with one arm and he pins that down. I reach out with my other to pull his hand off, and he pins that down too. I grin, ready to fire a snarky comment when I realize that he isn't smiling anymore.

In fact, he looks really, really serious.

His eyes are glazed over, his mouth is set in a grim line. I hear his metal arm whir, and suddenly his grip is too tight. My heart starts to pound.

"Bucky," I say cautiously. "It's me."

Seconds pass, one at a time. His brown eyes bore into mine, hard, frozen, deadly. It's like looking into the eyes of a brown bear that's about to tear your throat out.

And then he blinks, and the life returns to them.

"No!" He jerks away from me, taking all the warmth with him.

I sit up, but he's already across the living room, on his feet. He's running now, and not to one of the rooms.

He's running to the door.

"Bucky – no!" I leap over the couch, slamming my hand on the door before he can open it and put himself out in the icy wilderness. "Bucky, look at me!"

His eyes are wild, and he steps away from me as if my very presence is a threat. "Sora – keep away. I don't know if . . . if –"

"That was an accident," I say, even though I know I should be agreeing with him, not defending him. I'm not too psyched that he went all dark and evil, even for a few moments, especially knowing that he can still do this when I'm alone with him up in the mountains. But Bucky is my friend, and he has to realize that his flashes and night terrors aren't going to scare me away.

"Sora, _how _can you defend me?" he demands. "This isn't even the first time I've attacked you!"

"Shit happens," I snap. "I told you before, Barnes, I understand that this is gonna happen. You think I'm stupid? You think I'd let Steve leave me alone with you if I was terrified of you lapsing into one of your 'moments'?"

He's silent, and I take advantage of that to bitch some more.

"If you just _told _me," I say quietly. "what's going on, then maybe I could help. What happened to you? Who did this to you?"

My voice cracks, stupidly, and I scrub the side of my face in embarrassment.

"I'll tell you."

I look up at him, surprised. "What?"

He walks over, grabs one of the blankets from the ground, and wraps it around my shoulders. I didn't even realize I was shivering. "I said," he says. "I'll tell you. Come on. Let's go someplace warmer."

* * *

Bucky's room is the warmest room in the bunker, I note, after finishing the last of my cocoa. I hand it to him, and he sets it on the dresser. I lean back against the pillows, still wrapped up in my blanket. He's under the covers, watching me.

"The winter soldier," I say finally.

He still doesn't say anything.

"That's a pretty kickass name, no lie."

He cracks a smile, but it's empty. "Is that all you focused on?"

"No. I listened to everything else."

"The assassinations." His voice is bitter. "Over thirty people. Dead, because of me."

"Because of Hydra," I correct. I take his metal hand, studying his fingers and the ridges in them. "They did this to you. They made you kill. It wasn't your fault."

"Tell that to their families," he spits out. "They wiped my memory, over and over again, Sora. It burned. I remembered that. I remembered how it felt to lose those memories – eventually it's what I thought those memories felt like. Thinking back, remembering – it meant pain. It meant shock. It meant pain. And it meant ice." He shuddered. "I recognized Steve – how could I not? All Captain America now. But I didn't even . . . I didn't even know his name. Or who he was. My best friend, my best friend . . . I didn't even know his name. I didn't even know mine. It was awful, Sora.

"He rescued me, you know. He didn't have to. For all he knew, I was gone. But he didn't hurt me. Even when I beat the shit out of him, he didn't lay a hand on me. Only when the world depended on it did he wrestle me away. But after? When we fought? He didn't touch me. Captain America let me beat him to a pulp. And I didn't understand." His brows furrowed, mimicking his confusion. "Missions fought back. Missions didn't just lay there and take a beating. Missions didn't stir my memory. But this one did. And when I was finally able to put a name to that mission – it woke me up."

"You mentioned you left Steve after pulling him out of the river," I say quietly. "What did you do after that?"

"Research, mostly." He pulls his hand from my lap so he can lay down flat beside me. "Tried digging up what I could about myself. I was in a whole new time period – I didn't realize until then. Things were different. I was history. Part of history. I dug around for months, adapting where I could, trying to deal with . . . with the side effects, of surviving being the winter solider – before they found me again. So I went to the only person I could think of. Steve."

"So what now?" I ask quietly. "After things get better? Are you going to leave? Vanish one night and never show up again?"

"No." He reaches over me, pulling the blankets free from my left. He pulls the blanket I have wrapped around myself away, and urges me under the covers. "If I leave, I'll tell you. I promise."

I pull the blanket over myself, resting on my side. Bucky faces me, watching me with an emotion I can't quite pinpoint.

And then he closes his eyes, and we go to sleep.

* * *

There are a lot of assumptions the sleepy mind can make, most of them not positive. When I wake up and find the bed empty, I can't help but panic a little.

"Bucky?" I call.

No reply.

I grab one of his sweatshirts from the floor – they're bigger and warmer than mine – and pull it on over my tank top. "Bucky!"

He isn't in the bunker.

My gaze drops to the door, propped partially open, and I realize where he went.

I grab my boots and race out into the open storm, screaming his name at the top of my lungs. But the wind carries my voice somewhere I can't follow, and my vision is peppered by white. I'm freezing cold within seconds, but I can't turn back. I don't want to, not until I see some sign that Bucky's okay.

I keep walking, even when the bunker vanishes from view. Even when I realize that this was possibly the worst idea I've ever had. Even when I know that I won't be able to catch up with Bucky in this storm. The only thing that brings me too my knees is the blizzard, as the cold seeps into my head and closes my eyes.

* * *

_Hey to all you awesome readers! I need an opinion to be able to write the next few chapters - more like a vote, I guess. I intended to have a sex scene that would make the story M. But I'm thinking about taking that out . . . unless you guys want it? Review yes or no, that's all I need to be able to continue the story :) Thanks for reading!  
_


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